


Echoes

by archi



Series: By Grace, We Are Saved [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Major Character Death (?), Waste of some perfectly good alcohol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 02:41:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archi/pseuds/archi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was all so much easier when Sam was ten. Now Dean had to play the trusting game - letting Sam decide when to eat and sleep and drink and when he needed medical attention. Dean shook his head again and turned away.</p><p>Dean POV companion piece/overlaps "Rest"</p><p>Note: <b>This verse reads as one continuous story</b> Some sections overlap as told from different pov.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Echoes

Dean was grateful for the distraction, honestly - His brother’s massive weight, not conscious enough to really walk but not enough of a dead weight that Dean couldn't support him over the rough terrain back to the Impala - was enough that he couldn’t _think_ about anything but getting to a hospital, and couldn’t feel _anything_ but the warm, stumbling body beside him and the steady, if labored breathing.

They staggered, fell, stopped, and rested time and time again over the miles they’d walked earlier, and each time, when he thought he could go again, he pulled Sam up and carried him a bit farther.

He didn’t know how long it took to get back to the car, only that as much of a relief it was to his body to set Sam down limply in the front seat...for the first time in the last few hours he felt really alone again.

He got in the driver’s side and gave his little brother a once-over. 

Sam was covered in bruising, and Dean blinked rapidly to push the stinging of his eyes away. Guilt clawed at him and he jabbed the keys into the Impala. _This one was supposed to be on me._

But when had this life, this _world_ ever been fair?

He got back to main roads and was headed for Lawrence Memorial Hospital when Sammy started beside him.

He swerved in surprise, then pulled off the road, braking harshly. He turned on his seat, knee pushing into the leather and leaned over his brother. “Sammy, talk to me - how are you feeling?” Sam’s purple throat worked over trapped sounds and Dean couldn’t touch him - the kid was covered in bruising and it would hurt, “We’re on our way - gonna get you some help-”

But Sam tossed his head over the back of the bench, back and forth. “Don’t need it,” he croaked.

Dean cursed himself - Sam had learned the ‘I’m fine’ routine from him, after all. “You haven’t seen yourself yet, but believe me, it ain’t pretty. Hospital,” he replied decisively.

“Dean...no. Just...just take me home, ‘kay?”

His insides twisted in a spiral and he didn’t know whether to look at Sam for strength or to look away so he didn’t have to see him so damn broken. “Sammy, we’re going - we need to start getting you looked after - I don’t care if it’s the trials or a damn papercut - you’re overdue.”

But Sam shook his head again, “Dean, it’s gone. I can feel it...” his voice seemed to come from far away “...it’s over. Just...tired. Just need to rest.”

Dean hung his head, it was too heavy and the silence screamed inside. He pulled his lip between his teeth and blew out a long surrendering breath.

“If you’re lying i will kick your ass, little brother.” He slid back into place behind the wheel and pulled back onto the road, “Still a bit to go - you ok for a few hours?”

“Yeah,” Sam sounded relieved and Dean prayed that Sam meant it this time, “...just...Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“‘m sorry...”

Dean glanced over at Sam, lids half down and slumped like a great rug over the seat. “For?”

But Sam didn’t respond.

Dean turned back to the road. His eyebrows pulled together and he concentrated hard on the strip of worn asphalt between the double yellow and white lines.

He didn’t really see it, after a while. He tried to train his ears on the steady, slightly rasping breaths next to him, tried not to wander from them.

Sam had lived.

Sam was _alive._

_Alive alive alive._

But it wasn’t enough. Not now, not this time. Not when -

He cut his own thought off abruptly.

_Keep Sammy alive._

_Take Sammy home._

_Sammy._

He put the mantra on loop in his head. After an hour or so his body had calmed and the broken record of his thoughts had dulled to a low buzz. He felt...nothing.

Sam stirred a few times, but didn’t move much and didn’t say anything.

Dean would look over, wince a little at his brother’s wounds, then turn back to the road.

It wasn’t until about a half hour outside Lebanon that Sam really moved. He hoisted himself up and Dean watched out of the corner of his eye, trying to ignore the stifled groan.

“Just a bit longer. How’re you feeling?”

He looked over in time to see Sam tenderly reach up and touch his own face, then recoil quickly at the unexpected pain.

“I told you man, you look bad,” Dean assured him, trying to keep his voice calm and free of anxiety, “One big black eye. You’re sure it’s over?”

“...yeah.”

Dean nodded and turned back to the road. He pulled up the low buzz of the mantra again. Sam didn’t seem in the talking mood, and if all he needed was rest, Dean wasn’t going to stand in his way.

…

Sam didn’t say anything and Dean didn’t know how to break the silence until they’d closed the door of the bunker behind them. Sam managed to walk in on his own - slowly, careful of his bruised body, but steadily nevertheless. Dean hovered a hand behind him just in case.

Sam breathed deeply and looked around. Dean walked past and headed to the kitchen.

“Why don’t you go take a shower and I’ll fix us something?”

Dean’s body screamed at every movement to just lay down and rest, his calves stiff from the car ride.

“You go ahead first,” Sam said, looking around. He walked into the kitchen. Dean turned around, momentarily shocked by the purple and green marbled effect coming in and out of focus over Sam’s exposed skin. Sam pulled out a glass and filled it with water. “I’m not hungry yet - just thirsty. I need to sit just a bit longer...besides,” he managed a humorless smile, “you’re filthy. I’m almost comatose and I could still smell you in the car.”

Dean huffed and rolled his eyes, glad for the banter.

“Okay,” he ceded again. “You...you rest, though.” He tried to sound cool, to trust that Sam was telling the truth, “ And I’ll make something, after. Work up an appetite - if it’s really gone maybe we can finally get you a normal BMI rating again and I can stop reading research on malnutrition.”

Sam gave that half-amused nod, “Yeah, sure.”

Dean stood for a moment longer, lips pushing together as he fought the urge to baby his brother. He sighed. Sam held himself carefully, tenderly, but in a forced sort of way - he was trying to be strong for Dean...so nothing new. 

It was all so much easier when Sam was ten. Now Dean had to play the trusting game - letting Sam decide when to eat and sleep and drink and when he needed medical attention. Dean shook his head again and turned away.

“You better clean your damn plate,” he growled as he left.

The hallway echoed oddly as Dean walked through. The walls seemed to expand and the cozy - if not unconventional - home they’d discovered and _nested_ was suddenly empty and stiff. He pushed at his legs, willing them to move more quickly through the sterile passageways, until he arrived at the Men of Letters’ shower room.

He stripped off, turned a knob at his preferred stall and stepped back, waiting for the water to warm. At one of the sinks he retrieved his toothbrush, and brought it back to the shower with him, slowly working the bristles around his mouth - spitting out all the grime and dirt of the storm.

He’d been dreading this moment. No Sam, no task directly in front of him. He brushed slowly for a while, standing under the hot spray numbly, until he slowed to a stop, spit, and set his toothbrush aside.

The water was just a hair too hot, and Dean stumbled back into the still-cold tile. He inhaled sharply, and bit his lip. The sensation was oddly relaxing. Just physical. Nothing else. The tops of his shoulders and chest protested as the water kept pounding down, but Dean shut his eyes and just listened.

He bowed forward, balanced between his bright red feet simmering in the runoff on the ground and his lower back on the shower wall. Droplets burned as they hit the back of his head and slid down into his face, smothering his closed eyes, winding around the curve of his nostrils and tingling against his lips. He breathed, and drops of moisture curved into his mouth.

Images of Cas, sad eyes, moving closer, flitted through his mind and he tried to push them out, screwed up his eyes tighter as if his brain would catch on and stop replaying this - Dean didn’t want to see it. Not now. Not so soon, he couldn’t...

But Cas was close and Dean didn’t see anymore, just felt. The echoes of tender hands burned where the water fell, and chapped lips pressed against his and he coughed, pulling upright, shaking his head. _No_.

He bit his lip hard as he grabbed the soap, working it carelessly over himself and rinsing off quickly, trying to stay distracted, trying to keep out the images and whispered touches that were pushing at the door of his mind, queueing to enter and occupy his thoughts.

He slammed the water off and grabbed a towel and robe.

He needed a drink.

He detoured to his room only to throw on some clothes, before stalking to the kitchen.

He was debating whether to start with beer and work up to the good stuff, or if he ought to just dive in headfirst, when he turned the corner into the kitchen and saw Sam, back to the doorway, leaning on the sink heavily. A few bottles on the counter to his left and many more to his right.

There was a moment when Dean was slightly impressed and more worried about how much Sam had managed to drink while he was in the shower, until he heard the bubbling, hollow slosh of liquid tunnelling down the drain and his stomach dropped.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Sam stiffened, but didn’t turn, just set the bottle in his hand aside to the right and reached for another on his left side.

Dean heard the whizzing pop of the lid coming off, and the wet splatter as Sam poured another bottle down the drain.

“Sam, what the hell?” Dean strode towards him and Sam hastily grabbed the last two bottles and slammed them on the inside rim of the sink, shattering them and sending the contents and shards of glass down the drain.

Dean stared at the glistening remains.

Sam turned to him, expression set, breathing heavily. His jaw jutted out and Dean nearly recoiled.

“Sammy, what’re you doing?”

Sam huffed, “I put it all down the drain.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Dean said, “Why?”

“Because I’m not going to watch you do this again.”

“Do what?”

“Drink yourself stupid everyday because you can’t face what happened with Cas.”

“Shut up,” Dean couldn’t help it as the words spilled out and he turned away, “You don’t know what the hell -”

“I was there, Dean. I saw, okay. He’s gone. You lost him and I’ll never understand just how much it hurt and how much it’s going to keep hurting, but guess what, Dean?” he pulled at Dean’s shoulder and turned him back. 

Dean wanted to punch him. Wanted to swing at his bruised face to make him stop talking and scream that _you have no idea,_ , but he let himself be pulled instead, looking away, as if that might stop his brother from stepping in something too big for his own good.

Sam stared him in the eye and shook his head. “I lost him too,” his voice was less abrasive but it struck Dean raw. “He’s my friend too and he did it because there wasn’t another choice, just like I did. I’m sorry, Dean. He didn’t _want_ to leave. He wasn’t trying to hurt you - he _loves_ you, Dean. Don’t - don’t _do_ this.”

Dean still looked resolutely away, pushing Sam’s words from his mind without allowing them to register.

But Sammy had never known when to stop.

“If you want me to get better so bad you can’t drown yourself. You can’t start drinking over breakfast and you can’t leave me alone to deal on my own. If you expect me to get better then you have to take care of yourself.”

Retorts and insults stormed his mind and flooded his throat but he couldn’t let them out. They were stuck behind his teeth because he knew they were wrong and dammit Sam knew how to get him, but he couldn’t understand that Dean’s insides had been hollowed out and echoed with only the last and lonely sensations of the day and Dean couldn't think or feel or talk or _deal,_ with any of that right now and _god, Sammy just let me go. Just let me go and disappear. Stop trying to save me. Why did they keep saving him? ___

___He looked back up and thought Sam had an awful lot of gusto - he - well, his body - looked like Dean felt - bruised and tired - except the burning resolve in his eyes and Dean didn’t have any of that, just the great big emptiness and..._ _ _

___Sam’s chin trembled and before Dean could protest he’d been forcibly pulled into his brother. Sam consequently let out a pained noise that he half-swallowed but didn’t let Dean go._ _ _

___“You need to stick around and be here for me, okay?”_ _ _

___Dean’s arms hung limply and he couldn’t make them go up...Sam didn’t let go, just pressed Dean against him and it must’ve hurt like hell._ _ _

___“Just stay, ok?” Sam mumbled, “For me.”_ _ _

___Dean let out a huff of breath. Too shelled to feel resentment that Sammy had so blatantly and gracelessly pulled that card, he sighed, and gave a fraction of a nod against Sam’s neck._ _ _


End file.
